My daughter’s name was Marianne. She was only thirty-two years old and had a laugh that made every room feel warmer. She built her house through exhaustion, sacrifice, and endless nights of work. After her death, I stood beside her casket watching white roses chosen by Ethan, her husband, not because she loved them, but because they looked perfect. Her little daughter Sophie kept asking why her mommy would not wake up from sleep again.

Beside Ethan stood Camille, his business partner. She wore black clothing, expensive perfume, and a gold bracelet that stopped me cold. I recognized it immediately because it had belonged to Marianne. When I confronted her, she smiled slightly and whispered, “I won.” I felt anger rising, but I remained silent. After the burial, Ethan and Camille walked through Marianne’s home as if it already belonged to them. Then the lawyer arrived carrying a briefcase and a sealed envelope.